Salim pushed thoughts of his father and Abul Fazl from his mind as Suleiman Beg, who was riding with him, adjusted the hangings around the howdah to keep out the rain now being driven almost horizontally by the strong north wind. If the purpose of this second journey to Kashmir was different from the first, so too was the spring weather, at least so far. It had scarcely stopped raining since they had entered the series of mountain defiles and passes. The heads of the purple rhododendrons on the hillsides were bowed low by the weight of raindrops. As Salim looked out of his howdah, he could see water streaming down some overhanging cliffs to the right before splashing into the puddles on the muddy, narrow road twisting inexorably upwards towards Kashmir. On the left-hand side of the road, the land dropped almost sheer fifty feet to the jade-green waters of the river below which, fed by snow melt as well as rainwater, was flowing fast down to the plains.
‘The river level seems to rise every time I look at it,’ said Suleiman Beg.
‘Yes. It’ll be hard for those who’ve gone ahead to locate a camp site and erect the tents to find somewhere free from bogs and lying water.’
Suddenly, Salim heard a crash, followed by a low rumble and then agonised human cries from round the sharp bend in the road that lay just ahead. ‘What was that? Not an attack, surely.’
‘No, it was a landslide, I think.’ Suleiman Beg stood and gestured down into the ravine.
Salim followed his milk-brother’s pointing arm. Mud and stones seemed to have partially blocked the river, which was already backing up. Wasn’t that the body of an elephant he could see? ‘Mahout, make the elephant kneel!’ he ordered. Even before the beast had settled fully on to its knees, both Salim and Suleiman Beg had jumped to the ground and were running forward, splashing through the wet yellow mud to see what had happened.
Rounding the bend, Salim was deeply relieved to see that all the elephants carrying his wives and his young sons were safe on the road. However, the problem was immediately apparent. Part of the rock overhang had collapsed, taking about thirty feet of the road with it as rocks and mud slid down into the river below. The body of one elephant protruded from beneath the landslide; a second lay half in and half out of the river, the water washing over it turning red with the beast’s blood. Its gilded howdah lay nearby, smashed on some jagged rocks sticking out of the river. Pushing his way through those who were gathering round the site of the slide and looking down, Salim asked, ‘Who was riding on these elephants?’
‘Some of your grandmother’s waiting-women,’ one onlooker replied.
‘I regret to say one of them was your old nursemaid, Zubaida. Your grandmother thought the cool mountain air would be good for her,’ added a thin grizzled old man as, almost audibly creaking, he raised himself from where he had been lying peering over the very edge. Despite the mud which soaked his clothes and was splashed across his face and white beard, Salim recognised his grandmother’s steward. ‘I think I was able to see where her howdah landed.’
‘Do you mean the one splintered by those rocks at the river’s edge?’
‘No, that contained four other of your grandmother’s servants. I fear they are all dead. I myself saw one of their bodies washed away by the torrent, face down and arms spread. Zubaida’s howdah seems to have been torn from her elephant early in its fall. I thought I could see it caught behind some trees on a ledge about three-quarters of the way down, but more of the mud was slipping away and my eyes are no longer good. .’
‘Hold my belt, Suleiman Beg,’ ordered Salim as he flung himself on the ground. Oblivious of the cold wet mud soaking through his fine garments, he moved cautiously forward, propelling himself on his elbows to a point where his head and shoulders were overlooking the slide. Yes, the steward was right. The howdah had fallen away from the main landslip as the straps securing it to the elephant had burst. It had indeed caught against some scrubby trees on a ledge. But where were the occupants? The debris from the mudslide blocked his view.
‘Hold on tight to me, Suleiman Beg. I’ll see if I can get a better look.’ As Salim edged further forward, he heard a faint cry from below. Someone was alive. What was left of the sodden overhang might give way at any moment. If those who had fallen into the ravine were to be rescued, he must act quickly. At first it looked hopeless. No one could climb down there. But then he thought he could make out a route that might just be possible. ‘Bring me a rope — one of those used to pull bogged-down carts from the mud. I must try to get down there.’
‘Let me go,’ said Suleiman Beg.
‘No, it should be me. I owe it to Zubaida to be the one to go. She took great care of me as a child. I remember she climbed a thorn tree to rescue me after I got stuck in it bird-nesting when I was about three.’
Within five minutes a rope had been brought and Salim had stripped off his outer garments and tied the rope firmly round his chest. ‘Hold on tight,’ he shouted to Suleiman Beg. ‘Have further ropes ready to lower to pull survivors up with.’ Then he disappeared over the edge.
For about the first ten feet or so he picked out hand- and footholds on the wet rocks. Then he came to a place where mud had partially covered another small ledge. As he put his foot on it, some of the loose earth and stones slipped beneath his weight. For a moment he lost all purchase. Only the rope tightening under his armpits saved him from what he realised with a shudder would inevitably have been a fatal fall. However, as he swung back and forth on the rope he retained the presence of mind to propel himself back towards the ledge and to kick away some of the mud so that he could get first one foot and then the other on to the base rock of the ledge.
After taking a deep breath, he looked down towards the considerably wider lower ledge where the howdah had caught. His view was much less obstructed now and he could see that there were two figures, both women, on it. One was lying prone on the ground and the second, who from her long grey hair he recognised as Zubaida, was kneeling beside her.
‘Zubaida,’ Salim shouted. She didn’t hear him through the wind and rain. ‘Zubaida,’ he yelled again. This time to his relief the woman looked up and waved her right arm. ‘I am coming,’ Salim called down. ‘Keep back against the rock wall so you don’t get knocked off by any further falls.’
Moments later he saw Zubaida tugging at the other figure in an attempt to pull her nearer to the wall too. It would be completely beyond Zubaida’s strength, but he knew she wouldn’t give up and seek protection only for herself. He had no time to lose. Cautiously, so as not to dislodge any more material, he lowered himself carefully down the wet muddy slope. When he was only about twelve feet vertically and perhaps the same horizontally from the two women, he heard a noise above him and small rocks began to fall. As he looked up to see where they were coming from, a large stone struck the side of his face and he felt blood flow into his mouth.
As he spat out the metallic, salty-tasting fluid, he heard Zubaida, who had recognised him, shout, ‘Go back, Highness. Save yourself. You are young. Both of us here are old and have already enjoyed a long life.’ As she spoke, more stones and earth fell between him and the ledge. Glancing hastily about, Salim saw some hand- and footholds created by fissures and protuberances in the rock which might take him directly above the ledge. Quickly but carefully, testing each hold before he put his full weight on it, he manoeuvred along until he was in a position from which he could jump the ten feet or so on to the ledge. He did so, landing with a knee-jarring thump next to Zubaida.
She was in a bad state, worse than he had hoped. A large jagged cut on her swollen temple was bleeding profusely and one of the shattered bones of her left forearm was protruding bloodily through her age-mottled skin. Blood was seeping from the back of the other woman’s head and staining her hennaed hair. She was unconscious, if not dead. ‘You’ll both soon be out of here and safe in the hands of the hakims,’ Salim said with a little more confidence than he felt. He manoeuvred slowly forward to a position by the howdah from where he knew those on the road above could se
e him. Then he waved both his arms above his head in the agreed signal to throw further ropes down. Soon, two ropes snaked through the air towards the ledge. Salim grabbed one but the other fell too far away. He had to signal twice more before another rope finally descended within his reach.
He tied the first rope round Zubaida, who winced only when he accidentally caught her damaged arm. ‘Be brave.’ Salim smiled encouragingly at her. ‘When I give the signal those on the road will pull you up on the rope. Use your feet to push yourself away from the rocks.’
‘Yes, Highness, I understand.’
‘When you reach the top, tell them to pull on both my rope and the remaining one at the same time. I will go up with your companion.’
Zubaida nodded and Salim moved again to the shattered howdah to signal for his old nursemaid to be hauled back up. Soon, to Salim’s great relief, she was ascending the rock face, obediently pushing with her bare feet just as he had instructed.
As she disappeared from his view, Salim went over to the second woman, who somewhat to his surprise was still breathing. As he tied the rope around her, he saw her eyelids flicker. Then he quickly resecured his own rope about himself and lifted the woman in his arms. A few moments later he felt the ropes tauten. Slowly they began to be hoisted up, Salim using his feet to keep them clear of the rocks when he could. He couldn’t prevent himself being swung heavily against one overhang, grazing his back through his thin tunic, but he was soon at the top, safe if bruised and blood- and mud-stained. As the hakims took the two elderly women away on makeshift stretchers, the first person Salim saw striding towards him was his father, the crowds parting before him. He had a broad smile on his face as he extended his arms to embrace his son.
‘Salim, I am proud of you. Your strength is now the equal of mine.’
To his son, every word was as precious as gold.
A soft wind was blowing through the beds of roses and some of their red petals were falling to the ground as three months later Akbar and Salim walked side by side through the Nasim Bagh near the Kashmiri capital of Srinagar. The gardens had been laid out on Akbar’s orders only twelve months previously on the west bank of the Dal lake, whose blue waters lapped the edge of the lowest of the gardens’ series of descending terraces. It must, thought Salim, be one of the most beautiful places in the world.
As if sensing what his son was thinking, Akbar said, ‘The Persians at the court boast that their homeland has the most beautiful gardens, the closest on earth to the charbaghs, the gardens of Paradise, which the Koran describes as the reward of the faithful in heaven. However, for me, the whole of Kashmir is one great garden of Paradise with its meadows carpeted in spring by the mauve flowers of the saffron crocus, its babbling brooks, its tumbling waterfalls and these wonderful hills and lake.’
Salim thought, not for the first time, that he had never seen his father as relaxed as when he was in Kashmir. Although Akbar still dealt daily with the despatches brought by post messengers from Hindustan and often inspected the construction of the fast-rising Hari Parvat fort in Srinagar, he still seemed to have more time to talk to members of his family. Perhaps, thought Salim, that was because almost immediately after they had arrived in Srinagar his father had despatched Abul Fazl back to Lahore to deal with some reported problems with the running of the imperial administration.
‘I was just thinking the same, Father. It is good to be among breezes and green meadows instead of the heat and rain of the monsoon in Hindustan. It makes me feel more alive.’ Salim paused, pleased to share his father’s mood, and then went on, ‘While we’ve been here I’ve become more and more interested in nature. I’ve had some of the artists draw accurate pictures of crocuses and other flowers much larger than life so that I can see all the intricate details of their make-up. I have even had scholars dissect the wings of birds to see if they can understand how they fly.’
‘Your grandmother has told me of your researches. I would like to see the drawings myself. Kashmir has been good for all of us. It has shown me not only how courageous you are but how strong your mind is.’
Salim said nothing for a while as the two continued to walk down through the terraces of the Nasim Bagh towards the glinting waters of the Dal lake. Then, emboldened by these moments of intimacy, he asked, ‘When we return to Lahore, may I attend your council meetings, whether civil or military, more often so that I can better understand how our empire works?’
‘I will certainly think about it. I shall consult Abul Fazl as to when it might be most helpful for you to do so.’
Abul Fazl, always Abul Fazl, thought Salim. He said nothing, but it was as if a shadow had passed over the warm late summer sun.
Chapter 21
‘A Riband in the Cap of Royalty’
‘This is good news. We should celebrate,’ said Suleiman Beg. ‘Perhaps it will be a third son for you in addition to Khusrau and Parvez.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘What’s the matter? You look as if your father had appointed you inspector of the Lahore latrines, rather than a man who’s just learned that his favourite wife is pregnant.’
Suleiman Beg could always lighten his mood, Salim thought. ‘You’re right, and I am pleased. So is Jodh Bai. It was hard for her to see me with two sons already, neither of them hers.’
‘And I’m right, aren’t I? She is your favourite.’
‘I suppose so. At least she can always make me laugh. Like you, she knows my moods and can tease me out of them. And unlike Man Bai or some of my other wives she never complains that I don’t spend enough time with her.’
‘What is it then? Why the reluctance to rejoice?’
Salim’s jaw tightened as he tried to answer that question as much for himself as his milk-brother. ‘It’s good to be the father of sons, of course it is. But what will I have to offer them? The same purposeless life that I lead? While we were with my father in Kashmir I thought he had changed towards me. He seemed to want my opinions, but since we’ve returned to Lahore he ignores me again. It’s all Abul Fazl. He sits at my father’s right ear dripping unctuous words and I’m surer than ever he is to blame. He wants to exclude me and my half-brothers because he sees us as rivals for influence with my father.’
Suleiman Beg shrugged. ‘Perhaps your father thinks you’re still too young to take a hand in government.’
‘I’m a grown man. I’m a father. I’ve proved my courage in battle. I’ve been patient and dutiful. What more does he want? Sometimes I think he excludes me from important debates on purpose.’
‘Why should he do that?’
‘Because he doesn’t know whether he wants me to succeed him. He’s reluctant to give me any real power or responsibility because he fears that will be a sign to me — and to others — that I am his chosen heir.’
‘You don’t know that. It might just be that he’s wary of giving up any power to anyone. How old is he?’
‘He’ll be forty-nine in October.’
‘There you are then. Though he looks so vigorous and strong he’s not a young man any more. In his heart he’ll know that and he probably resents you or anyone who might one day succeed him — he’s like the old tiger driven from his haunts by a younger male.’
‘How come you think you’re so knowledgeable?’
Suleiman Beg shrugged, then grinned, showing very white teeth. ‘My father’s almost exactly the same age and he’s the same. He does nothing but find fault with me, never asks my opinion about anything. I just keep out of his way. I wish your father would post him back to Bengal.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps my father doesn’t intentionally mean to slight me. He’s certainly shown no more favour to my half-brothers. Murad and Daniyal lead the same aimless lives as I do.’
‘But they continue to find ways of solacing themselves.’
‘What do you mean?’
Suleiman arched an eyebrow. ‘Surely you’ve heard the latest about their parties? Sometimes they’re too drunk to get themselves to
bed. Their attendants often have to carry them back to their apartments and two weeks ago Murad nearly drowned when he collapsed into one of the water channels in the garden.’
‘Doesn’t their behaviour make you understand how I feel? I don’t want my sons to lead empty lives, not knowing what the future holds, and as a result succumb to the temptations that self-seeking people dangle before princes for their own purposes. I want to be emperor and give my sons the chance of fighting by my side as we expand and strengthen our empire.’
‘You’re too impatient. Your father may have many years to live.’
‘I pray he does. If you think I want my father out of this world and in Paradise you’re wrong. But I can’t live through many more years like this, with no way of achieving anything. I might just as well be one of my concubines lying on cushions all day and growing plump on sweetmeats, or one of the fat eunuchs who never draw a dagger or a sword. I’m a young man, a warrior, I need opportunities now. If my father shuts me out I have nothing. It’s not like the days of our ancestors when a Moghul prince could ride off in search of new lands where he could carve out a kingdom for himself as my great-grandfather Babur did. In his lifetime he ruled Ferghana, Samarkand and Kabul before he came near Hindustan. When he was half my age he’d already made his mark on the world.’
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